edge of the wingtip.
‘Bit fat for an IV pole but it’ll do the job.’
‘Good thinking.’ Guy held up two small packages. ‘Foil sheets.’
‘Great. Let’s get sorted, then.’
For the next ten minutes they were both kept busy. They wrapped Digger in the sheets to help prevent the loss of body heat. They used rocks to stabilise the cushioned seat back and got it into a position so that Digger was propped up to assist respiration but still tilted to his injured side. They also tucked him a little more closely into the windbreak provided by the bent wing. Hoping that the fluids were raising blood pressure enough to make it safe to administer some pain relief, Jennifer reached under the cover of the leather jacket to find Digger’s wrist.
She found her fingers grasped and saw a reminder of the cheeky grin she had noticed much earlier that day.
‘The lengths some people…have to go to…to get a pretty girl…to hold their hand!’
‘Hmm.’ Jennifer couldn’t help grinning. ‘You could have just asked! How’s the pain?’
‘Pretty…bad.’
The grin faded as she turned to Guy. ‘Much stronger pulse now. Do you want to draw up some morphine?’
‘OK.’ Guy’s gaze was fixed on Digger and for a split second Jennifer saw a level of concern in his eyes that was far more than a doctor would normally show for a patient. Even a patient who was a friend. There was a bond between these two men that made special care of Digger paramount and Jennifer found herself reaching for the stethoscope. While things appeared to be stable right now, this man had at least two potentially life-threatening injuries.
‘How’s the chest?’ Guy’s expression was nothing more than professional now as he drew sterile saline into a syringe to dilute the contents of the morphine ampoule.
‘Clear on the right. Still moving air on the left, but I think the breath sounds have diminished since the last time I listened. A pneumothorax is pretty likely, given those rib injuries. We’ll just have to keep our fingers crossed that it doesn’t tension.’
Their eyes met with only the briefest of looks. Enough to acknowledge just how quickly this scene could turn to custard. Enough to confirm that they would both be doing their best to manage any complications—and to succeed.
A thin stream of fluid sprayed from a needle tip as Guy removed the air bubble from the syringe. ‘I thought I’d do this in five-milligram increments,’ he announced. ‘If that’s all right with you, Dr Allen?’
‘Works for me, Dr Knight.’
The formal use of titles was more an agreement to work as equals than the previous form of a putdown, but Digger clearly didn’t approve.
‘Cut the “Doctor” bit,’ he growled. ‘Anyone would think…that I was…sick or something.’
The first dose of morphine dulled his pain but not sufficiently to make re-examination of his abdomen a pleasant experience.
‘Definite guarding in the left upper quadrant,’ Jennifer informed Guy.
‘Talk English,’ Digger growled.
‘You’ve got a sore gut,’ Guy told him.
‘Could have…told you that, son…What’s…broken, then?’
‘You might have dented your spleen. Possibly a bit of your liver. They could be cut and bleeding a bit.’
Jennifer eyed the bag of IV fluid. One litre was almost gone and they only had two more. If Digger did have an abdominal bleed from a laceration to either his spleen or liver, they would be in trouble before very long. She pulled the remnants of Digger’s woollen shirt back to cover him before tucking the leather jacket in place.
‘Thanks…Jenna.’
Jennifer’s gaze lifted sharply. ‘Why did you call me that?’
‘Don’t like…Jennifer. Too posh.’
The approving smirk on Guy’s face was hardly subtle. Jennifer just stared as he leaned towards the older man.
‘How’s your pain now, Digger?’
‘Bit better.’
‘On a scale of one to ten?’
‘Twelve.’
‘What was it before that dose of jungle juice?’
‘Twenty-five.’
‘Right.’ Guy shook his head. ‘Never one to conform, are you?’
‘Nope.’
‘And maybe Jennifer likes her posh name.’
She wasn’t going to stay silent while they reinforced their branding of her as some sort of outsider.
‘It’s not posh,’ she informed them loftily. ‘Neither am I.’
Guy’s snort of amusement was outrageous.
‘What—’ Jennifer demanded, ‘is that supposed to mean?’
‘Well, come on! You’re the epitome of “posh,”’ Guy shot back. ‘Nice hair, nice clothes, great education. Top job in one of the country’s leading hospitals. Good grief, you even chose to wear high heels and a suit to go out sightseeing.’
‘This isn’t a suit! Just a skirt and top…and jacket.’
‘Looks like a matching set to me. They’d be getting the lace doilies out in the Glenfalloch pub if you showed up looking like that.’
‘I have no intention of setting foot in the Glenfalloch pub—wherever that may be.’
‘It’s my local,’ Guy said casually. ‘The best pub in Central and about the only building of any note between where I live and Wanaka.’
‘It’s my local…too.’ Digger sounded drowsy. ‘I’d give my left arm for a…pint or two…right now.’ He opened his eyes enough to give Jennifer an appraising glance. ‘You’re right, though, son…she’s a looker…Reminds me…of Diana.’
‘I was referring to the image of a city slicker,’ Guy said. ‘Not dishing out compliments.’
‘Cheers,’ Jennifer murmured.
‘Not that you don’t deserve a compliment, of course.’ Guy finished injecting the second dose of morphine. ‘I just wouldn’t want you to think I was hitting on you.’
‘Perish the thought,’ Jennifer agreed drily.
She shook her head. What a bizarre conversation to be having, given the circumstances. Or perhaps it wasn’t. The three of them had been hurled into dealing with an appalling situation together. The more of a bond they could form, the more they could
